Amid a roomful of horrified students from faraway lands, I watched the live coverage as the twin hulking masses fell into themselves.
Rosary beads and silent tears. Foreign lips breathe growing fears.
The jumble of instant replay, hollywood fireballs and crushing destruction flashes over and over. Coverage breaks away from the horror to a live shot of Palestinians dancing in the streets.
Flurries of Hebrew words follow tightened brows as horror turns to anger. The Israeli students turn to the others and demand acknowledgment.
"Do you see now? Do you understand?"
I realize that this is not smug superiority, this is the exasperated demand of understanding.
For years I have played advocate to the devil, championing the cause of those I believed to be unduly oppressed. Seeing both sides of the argument, my empathy has drawn me to defend the underdog again and again.
Here, in the heat of the moment they dance. Their leaders claim to speak for the people of Palestine when they say their hearts are filled with sorrow, but I have already seen the people of Palestine speak. Their faces are filled with joy, not sorrow.
Truth lies in the heat of the moment.
No matter the cause of their bitterness, no matter the reasons for their anger, those that champion our sorrow will forever be enemies of my heart, and enemies of my country for as long as I shall live.
I look to these beautiful Israeli women with tears in their eyes. They see this burning hole in the ground, not with newly realized horror, but with the sorrow of experience.
